


miroirs III

by halfaday



Category: SF9 (Band)
Genre: M/M, loosesly interpreted prompts so they fit my recipes, these three swim in this meal therefore walk cautiously, ust a hint of pain a hint of love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23260171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfaday/pseuds/halfaday
Summary: You Will Just Never Guess What This Is
Relationships: Kim Seokwoo | Rowoon/Lee Sanghyuk | Dawon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	miroirs III

**Author's Note:**

> six drabbles based on tumblr user yuckwhump's [february prompts](https://yuckwhump.tumblr.com/post/190405149090/29-day-whump-challenge-ive-put-together-a-list-of). as always, each prompt will be listed before their drabble (with, and this is NEW!, a short description if the drabble is impossible to link back to its prompt). as always 2.0, this is not Real Whump if that's what you're looking for, but some stuff can be triggering, so be sure to read the lil prompt before the drabble. no further warning, everything's written on the tin for this baby.

_8\. strangulation_

The marks are there, on his neck: ugly purple clashing with otherwise pale skin, ghosts of prints hovering over a territory that does not belong to them. Inhumane, blasphemous — and yet present, _real,_ putting the heavens above to shame, and breaking their heart, hiding the sun from the world and forbidding the bearer of the guilt to ever witness it.

The skies cry — and as they do, so does he. The tears roll down the bruise on his left cheek, hang from his chin before falling, crashing into his lap. They come, and come, and come — as He brushes a finger against his marks, and then cups the wound; as He whispers words of comfort to him, and means them; as He pulls him into His arms, and holds all of his pieces together.

'You are not unnatural. What he did to you, is.'

He cries, and cries, and cries, and the skies follow his lead. For hours —

until, on the other side, He places His hands on the marks, and kisses his forehead. Just once — but the heavens witness it, and forget to lament.

'You are nothing less than who you should be.'

Wiping a streak of tears away, one that is bound to reappear — but a desperate, thankful chuckle makes it way out. For a moment, sadness has disappeared.

The rain stops — and a rainbow paints the heavens in shades of uniqueness. He kisses his forehead again.

_17\. sold at auction (in a universe where Sanghyuk buys slaves to later free them)_

He hugs him tightly, long, skinny arms suddenly finding their strength back, holding him as close as they can. His chest feels just as bony as it looks, is uncomfortable to rest one's head against — but, against his own chest, Sanghyuk can feel a heartbeat — loud, proud, wishing to go on. This is all that matters: whatever that happens afterwards, this will be the memory worth it all.

He pulls back, plants his eyes into his. His hands — they're so skinny, and yet they're the ones keeping him grounded, forbidding the world to spin underneath his feet.

'Will I ever see you again?'

In another life, this is their climax, before they meet later and never part again. In another time, this is the most beautiful story to ever exist, and this is only a mere twist in their relationship. In a different universe, this is pure fiction, and Sanghyuk gets to rewrite it all.

Thoughts of a future. Forbidden until now — Sanghyuk sees shades of blue, worn; a comfortable home that does not belong to him yet welcomes him warmly; a lucky escape out of the guards' grip, or at the very least out of prison; a tight embrace, and the promise that everything will be alright.

In other universes, this is so much more than this; an inspiring, gorgeous, triumphant moment. But this is the present, and it is nothing more than a tragedy.

This is the end, in a world of sorrow and pain. Sanghyuk closes his eyes, focuses on everything he can feel, see, hear. Protruding collarbones under his fingers; a hot breath fanning his face; metallic noises slowly but surely coming closer — the memory of a heartbeat, that deserves to live and know delight.

Sanghyuk opens his eyes, and wishes it were different. Knows it won't ever be. This is the tragedy bestowed upon him, and this is where they part ways — as of now, the other half of this play only deserves happiness.

Sanghyuk swallows, and almost smiles.

'Of course.'

The heart still beats in his ears as it leaves.

_19\. heat stroke (39°C is 102.2°F and 25°C is 77°F)_

It's all wrong in its execution, nothing like what Seokwoo expected when he'd caught a glimpse of him and imagined Things. He’d expected tension, audible heartbeats and a potential end to whatever this was that went on between the two of them — he was only getting Sanghyuk laughing at him as he told him he thought he'd seen him naked on heat stroke day, was only getting a _you think?_ in reply, along with a mischievous grin.

'And was the view enjoyable?'

Sanghyuk hasn't even stopped folding towels, is treating this like a typical discussion. _Oh, I saw you naked while it was 39°C in the shade, I felt a lust for you. Really? Here, have some orange juice, I've heard it's refreshing during summer._ No hint of a tease, not even a wink, not even a fluster. Sanghyuk is treating this like it's a discussion about melons and bananas — is surprisingly getting to the point, but with no care for it.

'Maybe,' Seokwoo grumbles, looking away, to the right, where books and watches pile up over each other — where he doesn't need to face his failure, where hope still lives on. (Where Sanghyuk bends over at the mention of his nudity, and pulls him in, tilts his chin, grazes his lips with his own, and then —)

'Not sure? You stayed there for hours. You should know.'

The fantasy bursts like a bubble — the fragments land on the floor, have Seokwoo believing he can stare at them. _You stayed there for hours._ How would Sanghyuk know? He had his back to him all the time — had shifted just a little when he'd started… Changing, but… even _like this…_ He wasn't looking at him — and Seokwoo had made sure, had done his very best to hide properly. Especially like this: being attracted to your naked neighbour is a thing, but fantasising about him even when he seems to be covered in - in scales, and - with a tail — being unable to watch and dreaming about it, later on — it is something to keep for oneself.

And yet, here Seokwoo is. Mentioning it casually, trying to get Sanghyuk to react. Getting caught in his own trap, and suddenly forgetting how to get out. Looking up at Sanghyuk, and seeing mischief, content in his eyes. This — this is a little more how he imagined it, except much harder to sit through — his heartbeat is loud, deafening; and his entire body has become goo. Sanghyuk's eyes pin him to his bed, and he can do nothing, but stare, wait for the following blow.

'How do you…' he breathes out, voice stuck in his own throat. 'How did you… I was…'

Sanghyuk smiles, sweetly — honey pouring from his lips, dripping all the way to the bed, glueing Seokwoo there, making him his prisoner. It's funny: he's smiled like this a thousand times, has never once looked dangerous while doing so — but now, Seokwoo feels like an innocent fly trapped in a cobweb, feels like he's staring up at his captor, feels like he knows exactly his fate. He isn't getting out of this unscathed, isn't walking out as ignorant as he was at first.

'I don't know, think it through.' Sanghyuk lays a hand on his ankle, trails up, just a bit — to the right, also, to touch the back rather than the front. His hand is gentle, soft — it caresses him lovingly. Seokwoo swallows. 'If I have scales, if I have a tail — if I can do so much more, if I can _be_ so much more than you… Don't you think it's natural?'

He stares at Seokwoo, still smiling — eyes gentle, and hand riding up just a bit, above, a few centimeters up — all the way to the back of Seokwoo's knee, and resting there, as if he were punishing him for his silence. In Seokwoo's fantasies — this is a gift, for keeping quiet about the whole ordeal, for doing nothing more than dreaming about it. Here — it's as if Sanghyuk wants to hear him talk, as if he relishes in having him flustered. Seokwoo sinks just a little in his pillows, ignores the sensation of skin on skin — feels like he'll choke on the lump in his throat, and if he doesn't — Sanghyuk will do it for him.

'You're quiet. Cat got your tongue?' Sanghyuk steps closer — laundry long forgotten, only looking at Seokwoo — grinning just a little bigger, and Seokwoo could swear — the teeth in his mouth are pointy, smaller, seconded by another row. It's raining, outside. Rain, with a temperature of 25°C. No possibility to blame the heat: this is as good as they've gotten for the past month, impossible to undo what Seokwoo is witnessing here. 'Surprised, maybe? Is it the surprise that got your tongue?'

His hand — the skin upon Seokwoo's becomes something else, hard and coarse and unwelcoming — scaly; with Sanghyuk's fingertips becoming almost claws — and yet, as it rides up, as it cups Seokwoo's thigh — it elicits nothing but shivers, a pleasant chill running down Seokwoo's spine. It is like nothing Seokwoo has ever felt before; unique, rough — tender, as it caresses him, and, if Seokwoo dares to even think about it, better than skin. He sinks even more into his pillows, wishes to become one with them — watches as Sanghyuk's hand, black and green and white, rock-like, clawed, stops at the end of his shorts, just above the middle of his thigh.

It's odd, how warm it feels despite its disappearance of body heat — how nice it is there, despite its lack of humanity. Seokwoo doesn't have the heart to swat it away — doesn't _want_ to swat it away, actually, wants it there, on his thigh, and — in other places, higher, here, there. He can think of a thousand places for this hand to discover, a thousand ways for it to take. Would like to suggest them all, but — his throat is closed, has forbidden words to come out. The only thing it will allow — is a sigh, when Sanghyuk kneels on the bed, by his legs, nail (claw?) accidentally digging into his thigh.

Sanghyuk notices, of course — he smiles, just as sweetly as before, and presses his nail into his skin again, rubs the spot right after. Seokwoo bites the insides of his cheeks to stay quiet.

'You've grown silent. Do you want me to get your tongue back?'

Sanghyuk's other hand — just as black, just as rough as the other one — comes to hold his chin, thumb resting on it, his four other fingers tilting it up, splayed all the way to his throat, dangerously close, dangerously in charge. The touch is barely there, much less present than on Seokwoo's thigh — but it's as if it's multiplied tenfold, as if every nerve of Seokwoo there had been shaken awake. Perhaps it's the expectation — perhaps it is the desire — perhaps it is the knowledge, of what's there, of what Sanghyuk could easily slit, could easily crush —

Seokwoo finds his voice back, temporarily.

'Will you kill me?' he mutters pathetically, stumbling on the first syllable before managing to utter the rest of the sentence — feeling small as Sanghyuk tilts his head, as silence hangs in the air. As the hands remain perfectly still on him, and the opportunity — to kill him, to quietly silence him — arises.

But Sanghyuk does not seize it, at all. He simply caresses his chin with his thumb, traces circles there. Seokwoo wonders — just what he would do if he opened his mouth, if his finger got caught in it.

'I won't do anything you don't want me to do. Promise.'

That says not quite enough — that says a little too much. Seokwoo is free to ask for whatever he wants — he is free to demand anything and everything, from what's been keeping awake every day to his darkest, less explored fantasies. It's unbelievable — much too believable. 

Seokwoo opens his mouth, and gets the reply to his own question — gets the reply to what Sanghyuk would do if he were to suck on his thumb, too, and is pleasantly surprised by it. Sanghyuk crouching before him, one foot between his legs, just close enough to want more; the other by his side, trapping him on the bed, beneath him — watching him, intently, giving him control over this part of the situation, allowing him to tilt his hand better. Letting him abandon his thumb, and sucking two, three other fingers, dragging his teeth along them. It's different, with such texture, but not in a bad way — he can be rougher, like this, doesn't have to care about potential harm. Sanghyuk can take it — Seokwoo can feel it on his skin, under his teeth, can see it in his own eyes: this, he does not mind at all.

'Alright,' Sanghyuk whispers after a few seconds, withdrawing his fingers — licking the tip of his middle one just once, and smirking at Seokwoo right after, as he bends down to cup his face, to set his eyes into his. Even they are different, now: pink oceans in which it's impossibly easy to drown, paradise to never come back from. Seokwoo sighs, thinks he can almost taste heaven. 'You got your point across. What do you want me to do?'

 _So many things,_ is the only answer possible. Seokwoo has dreamt of this a million times, when he thought Sanghyuk was only human — hasn't had the time to picture it as much after learning, seeing the truth, but it doesn't quite matter: he's thought about it enough that he knows just what he wants, that he could word a few desires right here and there.

But where should he start? He has so many cravings, some of them completely apart from each other and impossible to associate — some of them a mere idea, a vague concept, unable to be worded. He's yearned to be fucked by Sanghyuk, to be rendered a shuddering mess by him — has wished to have his mouth on his skin, his back, his nape, while his hands would be on his legs, his thighs, his ass — reaching forward, or downward, teasing his length, or his entrance — Seokwoo has pictured both, craves each version he's imagined. Along with hands caressing him lovingly, with a mouth pecking each centimeter of his skin — teeth nibbling on a nipple, and biting down here, and there — marks covering his neck entirely, and leading down, down, down — where a final one rests, on the top of his thigh. Or his own hands, discovering a completely new territory — claiming it with his mouth, his teeth, a whisper here and there — owning it, and witnessing Sanghyuk’s reactions with each of his gestures — kisses — caresses — licks. Taking Sanghyuk in his mouth, and being painfully slow, teasing him until Sanghyuk growls and curses and tugs so harshly on his hair he sees stars for a millisecond — hovering over him, and witnessing the mess he's created himself, beaming at it widely — forgetting about time, and only knowing pleasure.

The list is endless, goes on and on and on. Already three ideas battle in Seokwoo's mind, strive to be the one that will be worded. They beg, and scream, and will not allow any adversary to take their place — Seokwoo thinks them through again, and gives up.

Does it really matter? Does he really have to choose? Sanghyuk is smart, skilled: surely he can do wonders with a single idea, can even perhaps meet Seokwoo's needs with just a word. He's done nothing but surprise him after all, has been amazing him since they met. Seokwoo is in good hands, in good care: he can give his very first, very original idea — and see how it goes. After all: this entire thing was nothing like he'd planned, and yet — is evolving just the way he wished to see it.

Yes — Sanghyuk can be trusted.

'Kiss me. Please.'

Surely, they can work from that — and end just where Seokwoo has wished them to be. Seokwoo is sure of it — and as Sanghyuk bridges the remaining distance between their lips, he knows he has nothing to fear at all.

_15\. branded_

'Human beings are not for sale.' Seokwoo remembers the slogan as clear as day, remembers reading it on a billboard that back then appeared gigantic, remembers the lecture they'd been given when he'd asked about it later in class. 

_Selling human beings is against the law,_ his teacher had said, outraged, so easily shaken — tears welled up in his eyes as he spoke. _And it is against nature to even consider it an option._

Seokwoo had agreed, of course — has never once believed his sensitive teacher was wrong. But he'd also looked it up, articles and movie extracts and much much more, curiosity striking him with a surge of energy for a few days, weeks. It'd left him, of course, had found something else to awaken — but years later, Seokwoo remembers it all.

Even now — _especially_ now: with Sanghyuk's back to him, his boss bent over the paper he needs to sign — the first two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a barcode burned into his nape, just above the protruding bone of his spine. Sticking out like a sore thumb, making Seokwoo shudder: it looks just the same as the one tattooed on the bald man's skull in the ad he'd seen back then, is a perfect imitation of it. So similar, it reminds Seokwoo of an article he'd read during his sudden peak of interest, about a woman who'd gotten a barcode branded on her shoulder as a joke, because she thought it looked fancy, and cool.

 _This is unique,_ she'd reasoned — and Seokwoo, now with a full view of Sanghyuk's barcode, must agree — it isn't something you see every day, especially as a brand.

But there are stark differences between the woman's brand and Sanghyuk's, obvious clues that divide them: where the woman's barcode was done perfectly, well taken care of, and most obviously cherished — Sanghyuk's has been done poorly, shred of _something_ forever burnt into his skin, with some lines being a bright red, some others almost blurry. It's constantly hidden, covered, probably unknown to most people — most certainly unwanted, at the very least unloved. A secret that perhaps even Sanghyuk doesn't want to know, a memory he wishes to drown.

Seokwoo wonders, furtively, if this brand is the reason he's been hired — if this is why he couldn't find anything about Sanghyuk on the internet — if this is why Sanghyuk is careful around him, never doing more than what is asked of him. Furtively: the questions fade as Sanghyuk looks up, and all that is left of the scar is the middle bars, peeking out of the loose collar, reaching for a summit. Does Sanghyuk feel that it's out? Is he aware?

(Does he ever touch it, when he's back home, and deep in his thoughts, and the only thing that cements him to the ground is the barcode burnt into his skin? Seokwoo wonders — how it feels to the touch, if it's smooth, or coarse. Sanghyuk would fire him on the spot if he ever tried to get an answer — but Seokwoo is curious.

This is where it ends, though: Seokwoo being curious, and thinking things through without reaching a conclusion. Sanghyuk —)

Sanghyuk shifts, leans back in his chair, scar now hidden deep into comfortable leather, invisible to Seokwoo. His smartphone is thrown onto the table, and Sanghyuk sighs.

(Seokwoo wonders if back then, it hurt for him to sigh. Feels — bad — guilty — for thinking about it, and wishes to be forgiven for such a question. Sanghyuk suffering isn't a pleasant thought. Not at all.)

'Seokwoo.'

Seokwoo straightens himself up, clears his throat out of habit.

'Yes?'

Sanghyuk motions him to come forward — Seokwoo obliges, and turns to face him, examines the view behind Sanghyuk before setting his gaze on him. He looks tired, slightly, dark circles under his eyes, cheeks just a little hollow — the tendons of his neck standing out with each deep breath he takes, his open collar revealing - nothing at all, just a patch of skin, and nothing more. Seokwoo looks up.

'I have a meeting. In a few. Outside. Any advice for me?'

Typical of his boss: thinking taking the subway equates to being a weatherman, asking Seokwoo to predict the climate. Acting like Seokwoo is his weather app, rather than the small square on his phone screen. This, too, often has Seokwoo wondering if this is why he got hired. But, much better at this than scars on a neck, Seokwoo brushes the question under the carpet, and gives the answer Sanghyuk is waiting for.

'I advise you to wear a coat. The sun is warm but spring hasn't quite settled yet.'

The wind was chilly, in the morning. Cold enough to give him a slight headache. But that's something he keeps for himself.

'Am I not coming with you?'

'No.' Sanghyuk rises, walks to the closet — supposedly containing files, but actually home to at the very least ten coats. The buttons of his shirt are still undone — Seokwoo fancies he can catch a glimpse of the barcode as he peers into the closet.

'That's not allowed.'

Sanghyuk shrugs him off, doesn't care. He only has eyes for his coats, and Seokwoo knows — if he were to try to reason with him, his ears would shut him out. Perhaps that's why he was hired: he knows the consequences that come with discussing orders.

'Don't worry. I told Youngbin about it. And I'm wearing my watch and my tracker. You can rescue me if I call for help.'

He emerges from the closet, holding a coat Seokwoo has never seen before. Black, penny plain apart from the silver buttons. It fits him perfectly, gives him a sharp silhouette, makes him look just a bit stricter than he actually is.

'How do I look?'

 _Good,_ is the logical answer. _Amazing,_ Youngbin would probably say. But Seokwoo can only focus on the two buttons of his shirt, still undone, still allowing skin to peek out. Surely his coat hides his barcode — but Seokwoo isn't completely sure of it, and he worries, thinks Sanghyuk wouldn't appreciate others seeing it. He's worked so hard at keeping it hidden — the least Seokwoo should do is protect him, even from afar. He cannot be there to make sure prying eyes won't look his way — but his absence isn't the end of all things.

'You should wear a scarf,' he says, voice even, hoping Sanghyuk doesn't connect the dots. 'Your neck will get cold.'

Sanghyuk glances at the mirror by the closet, pouts at his reflection. 

'But I look nice like this.'

'You'll look even nicer with a throat safely guarded. The wind gets cold, as you stay out.'

Sanghyuk rolls his eyes, sighs — but rummages through his closet anyway, pulls out what is clearly an expensive scarf. Probably made of cashmere, a pastel blue clashing with the sandy brown of one of its ends — drawings Seokwoo cannot make out here and there, what appears to be birds, animals.

He sort of wishes Sanghyuk would tease, mock him, and drape it poorly around his shoulders — would ask him to wrap it himself, and force him to come close. That way — he would be sure the brand is safely hidden. But Sanghyuk acts his age, as always, and buttons up his shirt, perfectly wraps the scarf around his neck. He twirls on himself, gazes at his reflection — gives Seokwoo the certainty that the barcode is safely hidden, unknowingly — does everything on his own, just the way he shouldn't. Seokwoo remains quiet, and stands there.

'I guess that's alright. Isn't it?' Sanghyuk adjusts his coat, gives himself one last look before turning to Seokwoo. He smiles. A rarity. 'I'll be back by one. If something goes wrong, I'll beep you. Alright?'

Seokwoo nods, mutters an _alright._ Steps to the left to let Sanghyuk pass, and freezes just a little when he stops before him. 

'Don't worry, okay? There's nothing to fear.'

He has to look up, a lot more than Seokwoo's former bosses — has to crane his neck, just a little. It's a good angle: this way Seokwoo can see how perfectly the scarf covers his neck, and how impossible it is for the entire world to ever see the barcode. It would have to undo his scarf, to rip his shirt open — to know what to look for, and bother finding delight in it.

It cannot — it won't. Sanghyuk is right: there is nothing to fear.

Seokwoo relaxes, and wishes Sanghyuk a good time. As the door shuts behind him — he absentmindedly lays a hand on his nape, and rubs the smooth skin there. No brand, no barcode: he is free to be whoever he wishes to be.

He looks out the window, and hopes it is now the same for Sanghyuk.

_26\. scars_

'I'm so sorry,' Sanghyuk whispers.

He's staring at Seokwoo's chest, at the ugly scar that stretches from the top of his pec to a spot slightly beneath it, the middle of a rib. It's old, now, a mere memory that hits Seokwoo every time he gets out of the shower and gazes at his reflection; a lack of heartbeat that always freak out temporary partners — that has come to reassure him when he needs peace — that seems to fade when Sanghyuk is nearby — 

But for Sanghyuk it is new, and years of incomprehension swim in his eyes, course through his mind. This is a hard pill to swallow — Seokwoo has yet to manage to get it past his throat.

'How?'

Sanghyuk looks up, at Seokwoo, as if he knew just what to say — begging him to know, to make sense of this entire thing. It has been years, since they first met; years, since they became friends. Years, since Seokwoo fell for him, since he unknowingly let him take his heart — it has been a long time, and all of it is much too heavy to process. This, this entire thing — it is unexplainable, illogical in itself. Seokwoo has never succeeded in making it reasonable, natural — this is a mystery that has been guiding each of his steps, that no matter what is real. He's come to live with it, to accept it — but as Sanghyuk stares at the scar, at him, he wishes he knew what to reply.

'I don't know,' he says, softly, as if talking louder would harm Sanghyuk. 'I don't know. I just looked down at my chest one time and it was gone. There was only a wound.'

He doesn't precise when, doesn't precise how frightened he'd been when he'd stared at the gaping hole and been greeted by nothingness; doesn't precise how comforted he'd been the next day, seeing that it was in Sanghyuk's possession — he only mentions seeing it in his hand, and stops there, earns himself a muffled gasp.

'My- my hand?' Sanghyuk immediately looks down, twists his hands every possible way. He couldn't see it back then, wouldn't be able to see it now either. He completely misses the blood sticking to his hands years after the heart switched places, first hanging from his necklace, then tumbling around in his tote bag during one fateful summer, finally settling down in his own chest. He doesn't feel it, probably doesn't know: just like with the blood on his hands, he has no idea.

But he tries, nevertheless. Perhaps that's one of the reasons Seokwoo can't get his heart back, even after all this time. This — and a thousand other reasons.

'It's not there anymore. I… I don't see it there anymore.'

Sanghyuk gasps at the confession — covers his mouth with his bloody hands. For a millisecond, the blood becomes liquid once again — it taints his chin and lips red, almost reaches his nose. For a millisecond: Sanghyuk's hands are dry when they drop to his sides, and they leave no mark when he crosses his arms, holding his elbows, as if protecting himself from this uncanny truth.

'No, no. No, that's not possible.' He brushes his hair back, rubs his face — glances at Seokwoo's chest, at his scar, and sighs, loudly. He seems so desperate — tears are welling up in his eyes, and his lower lip quivers, just like it did when they were children, teenagers, and the world refused to spin his way. 'Are you sure you don't see it there? Have you looked carefully?'

He examines his hands again, stares at them for seconds, minutes — looks up when Seokwoo makes fists of them, sniffles as they meet eyes. It's funny: he's the one who owns Seokwoo's heart, the one who shouldn't feel anything — yet he's here, on the verge of tears, looking like it's his heart that got stolen. Acting the way Seokwoo should, desperately fighting this back. 

'Did I drop it? Did I- is it gone? Seokwoo, tell me.'

It's hard, to admit. Especially in this situation, especially when Sanghyuk should have a thousand other things to care about. He mutters it, brushes over all the details — only admits half of the truth, lies about where it is.

'It's become one with your hand. Your arm. It's… there, on the inside.'

He makes a vague gesture towards Sanghyuk's left wrist, wishes he didn't have to. Watches as Sanghyuk starts scratching his wrist, almost looks away when their gazes meet. This is pitiful, unbearable — Sanghyuk is trying to right a decades-old wrong, is begging to fix this with his own hands. Can't, but tries so hard — in another universe, Seokwoo is convinced this is where he finally gets his heart back.

But here, in this universe — there is nothing to do, and Sanghyuk's reaction, when he asks what can be done to fix this, and Seokwoo's answer is a shake of the head; is a simple tilt of the head, a mute plea to Know, to have access to knowledge.

'You're getting married,' Seokwoo whispers, even more gentle than before — the truth ringing differently in his mouth, sounding like a curse rather than the happy event it is supposed to be. 'What can you do?'

 _An operation,_ Sanghyuk retorts, _this is what I mean._ He's lost, shakes his head as if to brush off Seokwoo's words — grips his chest with his left hand, leaves a mark on his jumper. There is nothing to do, he knows it. Can probably feel it in the depths of his subconscious, where Seokwoo's heart exists and beats proudly. Tries anyway, because they're best friends, and best friends don't leave each other heartless before marrying their university sweetheart. 

Or, well, they do, but they at the very least try to right that wrong and cry about it. Not loudly, or dramatically — just a few tears, rolling down one's cheeks, while the gravity of the situation hits them, and the entire world seems to spin differently. But only for a while — after all, this is not the universe where they dwell on it.

'What have I done to you?'

Sanghyuk wipes his tears away, leaving faint trails of blood on his face — creating an ache in Seokwoo's chest, a pale imitation of a heart that does nothing but hurt. One of his eyes cries red tears — Seokwoo reaches out to wipe it clean, tenderly rubs his thumbs on the dark circles born out of university stress long ago.

'It's okay. It has never ached. Don't worry.'

The blood seeps into each fold of his hands, paints them just the same as Sanghyuk's. But it does not taint Sanghyuk — as soon as the blood touches his hands, it dries, and is as harmless as paint clinging to clean hands. In this universe, Seokwoo has, at the very least, the hint of a upper hand over his feelings.

'But when you're with others… and when I'm with Seongha…' Sanghyuk trails off — asks the most important question silently. He gazes up at Seokwoo, begs for a million things with his eyes — wants to know, and in the end doesn't care how much the truth hurts. That's Sanghyuk, defined by one lone act: wanting to know the truth more than anything, even if it destroys everything. 

And this truth would probably shatter a few things into pieces, would most certainly keep him awake for a few days — would perhaps twist his mind and make it something else entirely, would in the long run do more bad than good. Seokwoo doesn't want this. In every universe — Sanghyuk deserves happiness. Even if it comes at a certain cost.

'It's okay. I'm fine. Don't worry.' He gives one last caress to Sanghyuk's face, pretending to wipe imaginary tears — then he goes back to being his best friend and nothing else, certainly not the boy who gave him his heart. He ruffles his hair, and smiles. 'I just lost something along the way. But it doesn't hurt. Don't worry.'

Sanghyuk blinks, a few times — looks for the truth, the lie in Seokwoo's eyes — seems to find what he needs, and sniffles once again. He bridges the distance between them and dives into his arms, holds him like his entire life depends on it. It's been a while, since he last hugged Seokwoo like this — since the death of his pet dog, since he announced he was getting married. Seokwoo hugs him back, squeezes him tenderly, just like he always did when they were younger — he caresses his hair, and tells a million words with just an embrace.

'Promise?' Sanghyuk mutters, voice muffled by Seokwoo's shoulder. He's making sure, before he can move on, before he can file this away as a strange secret that in the end doesn't mean much. 

Against his chest, Seokwoo’s heart beats. Loudly, proudly — just like it did last time, just like it always did whenever Sanghyuk was around — just like it will always do, until the end of time. Seokwoo inhales, and takes in the familiar rhythm before Sanghyuk lets go — remembers a brief hug during summer nights, and lets a tear roll down his cheek.

Like this — he could almost pretend he is whole.

'Of course.'

_2\. tied or chained up (the aftermath)_

The wind is chilly, clings to his hands and every inch of his skin, gives him a slight headache as he bends just a little forward.

'Don't do that.' Sanghyuk lays a hand on his chest and softly pushes him back; gives him a gentle smile when their eyes meet. 'You just got out of hell.'

'But I can't see you well from here.'

It's true: he's too tall for his window, and so is Sanghyuk when he crouches this way, forced to crane his neck to be able to look into the apartment, face obscured by the frame. This never happens when they talk on his balcony — but Seokwoo is much too weak to stand in the cold for hours, and Sanghyuk — Sanghyuk wouldn't let him anyway.

'I can't do much like this.' Sanghyuk tries anyway, uses the frame above him as a grip, bends just a little more forward, inside. 'Sorry.'

 _Should let me in,_ he could say, like he usually does during technical problems like this. But tonight he remains quiet, and only smiles wider, uses his free hand to hold the ends of Seokwoo's blanket together. A feeble attempt at keeping him warm, but it's sweet of him: Seokwoo lays his cold hands on his wrist, thanks him silently. His skin is — cold, dead cold under his fingers, but it's soft, especially on the inside of his wrist. Seokwoo runs a thumb alongside the tendon there, appreciates the way it oscillates as Sanghyuk tries to remain still on his perch.

'You look better. Good,' he whispers. His eyes follow Seokwoo's thumb, faintly reflect the night-light behind him. 'You always do when you're not chained to some crazy's wall. Great health. It becomes you.'

He looks up — would normally wink and snicker at Seokwoo's reaction, but tonight, once again — he simply grins, cheekily, and tightens his hold on Seokwoo's blanket. 

'Staying at mine would have fit you even more,' he continues. Dips one foot into something else, the usual game of hide and seek — except no starting touch follows his words, and only — only his eyes move, wander on Seokwoo before settling back in his own eyes. Not at all like usual — Seokwoo feels a shift, and notices the foot going back into the air, into — a tangible thing, that he cannot see. 'I'll be pissed at your colleague until you're back on your feet. I would have taken good care of you.'

The hand tugs on Seokwoo's blanket, slightly — enough to bring him just a little closer, where the wind can freely play with the hair covering his forehead, where — where Sanghyuk can look at him just a little more easily, and can see all the expressions that cross his face when he cups it. His eyes widening, probably; his lips slightly parting, and blood rushing to his face — Seokwoo has caught himself reacting to his touch a thousand times, knows exactly how he looks right now. Charmed, enchanted — stupid, mostly, but in a way that endears Sanghyuk. Thank God: it wouldn't do to have unrequited feelings for a vampire, especially when you hunt them for a living.

'It's protocol.' Seokwoo leans into the touch, represses a shiver. 'You know it.'

'I do. But it doesn't mean I enjoy it.'

Sanghyuk covers his cheek with his thumb, follows the thin line of his philtrum and then grazes his lips, once, twice, pensively. Seokwoo forgoes keeping warm, his distance — trails his hand up his forearm, follows a path that only exists to him. Pleasant, and captivating, leading to more — to something that does not come first tonight, that is not a priority. He stops at his elbow pit, rubs the spot where a vein once reigned. Waits, just a little, then replies,

'It does not please me either.' He ponders, weighs pros and cons, hesitates — opens his mouth to confess his sin. 'I'd rather be with you, too.'

He wants to ask — would like to be shameless, just tonight, and invite him in without having second thoughts, without feeling like he's being too much — without his mind reminding him that this is not the time, that inviting Sanghyuk in now is too dangerous for the both of them. He used to power through this kind of thing on his own — can now barely sleep alone even during the calmest night.

'I'll take you away.' Sanghyuk pulls him out his thoughts, brings him back to his apartment, his touch, what they have. His love; tender, gentle. 'I'll sweep you off your feet and lock you away in my castle. Amidst my books, my magical items and all the curses I collected over my centuries of debauchery. We'll look at the portraits of my ancestors and judge them based on resemblance, style, and execution. Until we pass out on my luxurious bed, and its sheets of silk. We'll sleep in, for a few years.'

Seokwoo lets out a laugh, amused — wishes this were real and Sanghyuk could do this — knows he cannot, and keeps up the charade to comfort himself, to make this last just a little longer.

'This sounds fun,' he says. 'I can't wait.'

Sanghyuk smiles, sadly — probably knows exactly how Seokwoo feels, is certainly going through the same thing. He gives one last caress to his lips before retracting his hand, letting Seokwoo hold onto it — intertwines their fingers when Seokwoo's request permission to settle in the space between his; tugs just a bit on his hands, to be able to look him in the eye.

'I'll come tomorrow,' he whispers. 'Earlier. At one. And I'll stay longer.'

Seokwoo nods — wishes already for the sun to be setting again, for the entire world to be asleep. This night isn't even over, hasn't even ended — but he does not want it anymore, not when it no longer belongs to him.

Sanghyuk must know: he bends just a little forward, and kisses their linked hands — undoes the tangle to stroke Seokwoo's chin, to give his lips one final caress. Seokwoo bends down, closer — bones and muscles aching unpleasantly, but Sanghyuk pecks him on the forehead, murmurs a gentle promise against his skin — makes it worth it.

'Stay safe, alright? Rest and eat up. I'll tie up the loose ends.'

Seokwoo mutters an alright, asks Sanghyuk to do the same before stepping back — watches him go, diving into the night, becoming one with it again.

He whispers a good night to the both of them, hopes the greeting will reach Sanghyuk's ears. Will never know if it did, would have to ask Sanghyuk but will forget all about it when he sees him — but as for now, he tells himself Sanghyuk is smiling at his words, and goes back to his eternal, temporary loneliness. 

Far down below, a dog barks, and a shadow blows a kiss to the fourth window of the tenth floor. The night shuts her eyes, and allows the lovers one last goodbye — until her brother sets again, and they are allowed to meet once more.

**Author's Note:**

> been in what one would call a bad slump writing-wise this is all i can offer


End file.
